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Summary
“Ah, I do love the coast…” Jaskier sighed dreamily as he sat poised on a small stool behind the wooden bathtub with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, promptly and without warning dumping another bucket of bathwater on top of Geralt’s head while continuing to speak. “Fresh air, infinite horizon, sand in your unmentionables…” He reconsidered. “On second thought, maybe not that last one. I haven’t had this many grains in my trousers since I pleasured myself in a wheat barn.”
“Information I did not want nor need,” Geralt remarked, lifting his tankard from the floor beside the bath and taking a casual swig of ale.